Pressure Points
by Delenn
Summary: "Irene Adler was dead." That's the beginning. The end is surely Sherlock Holmes, back on Baker Street, solving crimes. This is just that bit in the middle.


**Disclaimer: Too many brilliant people own these characters to name. I'm just playing with the BBC's versions. I promise to return them when I'm done.**

**Rating: PG-13**

**Author's Notes: Post "The Reichenbach Fall", death seems somewhat relative. That's the beginning. The end is surely Sherlock Holmes, back on Baker Street, solving crimes. This is just that bit in the middle. **

**Summary: Irene Adler was dead. **

**September 2012 - **

* * *

**Pressure Points**

Irene Adler was dead. Had been, in one form or another, for almost two years now. Dead, and almost-but-not-quite forgotten.

And, when World News reported the shame and suicide of the once famous fake consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, the Woman Who Was Once Irene Adler sucked in an involuntarily sharp breath and kept her eyes fixed on the screen before quickly excusing herself from the table. Lunch dates and coworkers entirely forgotten.

Though she kept her gait unhurried and steady, her pulse pounded in her ears.

Sherlock Holmes, a fraud? Impossible.

Sherlock Holmes, dead? By _suicide_, of all things? Impossible.

Which is why, when, two days later, the Woman Who Was Once Irene Adler walked into her living room to find the Former Sherlock Holmes lounging on her favorite chair, hands steepled under his chin and looking as alive as ever, she found her pulse elevated in what was both surprise and very much not.

Irene arched one eyebrow, instantly feeling more herself than she had her entire time in America, "Dinner?"

That got his attention. His gaze seared up and down her quickly, surely noting down hundreds of subtle (glaring) observations about the "new" her. "Isn't that line becoming a tad trite?"

His weary impatience was palpable, but there was a hint of teasing to his voice. Irene countered with her sauciest smile. "Not until you say yes."

He stared her down but didn't deign to respond. That was all right with her – she could read him just as well without words. A long, intense moment passed. Finally, she took pity on him. As lovely as it was making him uncomfortable... "Well, I'll just throw something together then, since you have no opinion."

His mouth immediately snapped open. Sherlock Holmes had an opinion on everything. She ignored him, heading blithely into the kitchen. He followed, rather predictably, and perched on her kitchen counter – right where he was guaranteed to be the most infuriatingly in her way. Of course.

Two could play that game. Irene stretched her whole body across his lap to reach for the cutting board, setting it up right next to him, and brushed against his knees as she went to grab tomatoes and lettuce. The half of her mind that wasn't occupied in teasing Sherlock had been contemplating her semi-usual salad for dinner, but she quickly decided to throw some pasta on as well. Sherlock was not the best at taking care of himself (if John's whinging was to be believed, which she imagined it was), and he had died recently. It was the least she could do to pull together a proper dinner.

With his eyes tracking her every move, Irene felt as though she were back in her old clothes, life, body, mind, skin. Nothing could have been less Irene Adler: cooking pasta in a reasonable kitchen in a modest little flat. But it was there all the same. Irene Adler, dominatrix: resurrected. It felt – brilliant.

Still musing at how domestic and surreal this whole evening felt, Irene finished gathering the rest of the ingredients from the cupboard and set water to boil for the pasta, making sure to press her body against Sherlock's-not-quite-that-much-in-the-way one as much as possible. She even rested her hand on his knee as she idly stirred the pasta sauce.

Honestly, she hadn't had this much fun in a kitchen without being naked, well, ever. Pity they weren't naked. She'd have to see about fixing that next time.

When Irene turned to begin chopping the tomatoes, Sherlock had already collected her favorite knife and was toying with it absently. Irene was rather expecting him to embed it in the cutting board just for show – she'd seen his kitchen table – but he flipped it end over end and placed it in her outstretched palm, handle first. They kept their eyes locked as his fingers brushed her palm before Irene brandished the knife with a flourish and turned back to the tomatoes. "You trust me not to stab you in the back then?"

"I've hardly turned my back on you, have I?" Sherlock scoffed, sitting ramrod straight on her counter, voice matter-of-fact.

"No," Irene mused, making quick work of the tomatoes and abandoning them in favor of leaning her hands against the counter on either side of Sherlock's knees, one still holding the knife. "But then, you haven't been able to take your eyes off me."

Sherlock's hands came down to cup hers, quickly pinning her palm and the knife against the table. Irene let her gaze linger on his hand over hers for a long moment before raising questioning eyes to meet his. When she finally did, she was glad to have his hands grounding hers. The intensity was overwhelming - his gaze scorching through her and leaving nothing but ash in its wake.

The moment burned between them. Irene was standing between his legs, leaning forward into him. They were only touching where his hands covered hers, but palpable heat came crackling across the centimeters separating the rest of them. Irene's hand twitched, loosening her grip over the knife to lay flat under his.

It was Sherlock who broke eye contact, shifting his gaze towards their hands as he slowly released hers, lingering in what might have been a tender caress before he extracted the knife and set it aside. His posture was too perfect, highlighting the fact that even a slight twitch forward would bring them into close contact. "Shall I?"

Irene blinked, but even Sherlock Holmes couldn't read her mind. The moment was broken. "By all means."

She stepped back and turned towards the range to steady her pulse, noting that Sherlock's breath hitched slightly as he dropped effortlessly off the counter and took over chopping the vegetables with a flourish of the knife that had nothing to do with culinary skills.

Irene fought the urge to brace herself against the range as she had just been against the counter. Perhaps she shouldn't be as surprised as she was – the intensity had always been practically a visceral tension crackling between them – but it had been a long time and it still took her breath away. She hadn't counted on them both being so affected. Irene was left with the insane urge to laugh – struck with the thought that they were both fighting a battle for control that neither was going to win.

They finished making dinner in silence that could almost have been considered comfortable, given the individuals involved. Irene supposed it was more surprising that either of them possessed any cooking skills at all, and idly wondered the last time Sherlock had made a proper meal. She spent far too much time speculating about Sherlock, but now that he was here, Irene found no point in even trying to curtail such thoughts.

They moved around one another in the small kitchen with seeming ease, but both were careful not to brush too close. Despite his claims to the contrary, Sherlock did turn his back several more times to finish chopping ingredients for the salad and sauce. Though, Irene noted with amusement, he kept the knife-rack in front of him at these times. She took some perverse pleasure in reaching around him to grab the bread knife.

Irene was just rinsing the lettuce when it was her turn to be startled. Without any warning, Sherlock was pressed up behind her, so close that she could feel the material of his trousers against her calves. She hadn't heard him cross the kitchen with the water running. While Irene held her breath, not sure she should move, Sherlock reached around her to rinse the knife under her water, the wet glint of it a flash of silver across her vision.

Just as quickly as he had crowded her, Sherlock was shaking water from the knife and turning back to the cutting board. Irene spun after him, just fast enough to see the vaguest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. She gave him an exasperated look and received a raised eyebrow in reply.

Not only did he still not trust her in her own kitchen, but he'd apparently decided that turnabout was fair play. Irene cursed silently, quickly turning to finish the last dinner preparations. If both of them were playing, this game suddenly seemed like it could get rather out of hand. And Irene always valued maintaining the upper hand.

...

Sherlock set the table, perfectly. Irene was left with the distinct impression that he could have easily arranged it for a full five-course dinner, had one been at hand. Struck with a sudden urge to attend one of those ridiculous high-class gala banquets of her former life with Sherlock on her arm, Irene shook her head in amusement. Sherlock was certainly fully of surprises.

Instead of wine, Irene brought out her good bottle of scotch, pouring them both glasses without asking and setting Sherlock's down in the correct place-setting before she moved towards her own seat, deliberately casual. "Mr. Holmes, I have it on good authority that you are recently deceased."

Sherlock snorted, eyes moving subtly between her and his scotch. "The news of my death is greatly exaggerated."

"On purpose." It wasn't really a question.

Sherlock met her eyes with steel, "Of course." His distain was evident, though whether it was at the topic of conversation or the incident in question, it was impossible to decipher.

"Well then," Irene leaned forward across the table, raising her glass expectantly, "A toast. Welcome to the underworld, Mr. Holmes. There's no rest for the wicked."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, but finally raised his glass to hers. They both drained their glasses in one long swallow, choking down the scotch as though its smoothness could belie the slightly bitter and all too true ring of Irene's words, innuendo aside.

After a long moment, Irene sat back and picked up her fork. Sherlock copied her movements, though he probably regarded dinner as something purely perfunctory.

They didn't talk about Karachi or their parting there. She didn't ask how he faked his death (he'd not asked her the last time, after all). She was sure it was appropriately brilliant and flashy. And he said she liked too much flair. Honestly.

...

After the food was put away and washing up finished, they settled in her living room with a fresh tumbler of scotch. Sherlock having once again taken up residence on her favorite chair, Irene retaliated by sprawling as provocatively along her couch as possible, propped up on one elbow so that she could sip her scotch and observe Sherlock.

She was content to watch him stare at something beyond her shoulder, scotch forgotten on the coffee table in front of him, for a long time. Irene loved looking at Sherlock. When he was like this, she was free to stare as long and openly as she liked, and oh did she like. She could almost see the deductions skirting across his eyes by the way they darted, or how one cheek muscle twitched. It was something of a game, to be able to so blatantly observe him without the slightest hint of what he was thinking or feeling. It was refreshing.

Still, this wasn't a game if Moriarty was involved – Irene had learned that lesson the hard way, and she prided herself on having the discipline to learn her lessons the first time. Irene took another sip of her scotch; amused to note that Sherlock's eyes half followed the motion. Well, he couldn't be that busy with brainwork then. "I assume this was part of foiling Moriarty's final plan?"

Proving that he hadn't been quite as ensconced in his own mind as he would have had her believe, Sherlock responded instantly. "Not quite."

Irene kept her eyes on his, one finger idly tracing the rim of her glass. "Oh?"

Instead of following the motion of her hand, Sherlock abruptly met her eyes, leaning forward to clasp his hands over his knees, words like a whip in the still air of the living room. "Moriarty is dead. But his web of _lies_ remains. It is a network. One that I intend to bring down."

Paying no heed to his agitation, Irene set down her glass on the table and pulled herself into a sitting position, tucking her legs under her. She kept her voice thoughtful but unperturbed. "Then you'll need to stay out of circulation for a while. Let your death settle in. Trust me. I've died myself – more than once."

She just liked watching him glower at the thought of having to voice his intention to stay with her. She could see him trying out and discarding ideas. Immediate and unconditional irritation at her being too stupid to follow, then the realization that she'd followed just fine and that he might have to actually ask for her help. In the end though, she couldn't bear to hear him beg (not in this context, at least). "The spare room is made up. Unless you'd prefer to share...?"

Without a word, Sherlock retrieved a hereto discrete duffle from under his seat and moved unerringly to her guest room, slamming the door behind him.

Irene picked up his discarded scotch and, turning off the lights, followed him down the hallway. She couldn't resist pressing her ear against his door, even though she already knew there would be nothing to hear. On an exhale, her lips traced words against the rough wood, "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

After a moment, Irene turned and continued to her room, one door further down, sipping her scotch thoughtfully.

...

**TBC**

**Note: This is the end of the first part. This looks like it will have several, so hopefully you're enjoying it so far! Sorry for the delay - I was struggling with some wording in the middle.  
**


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